


Get Real

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Bottom Sam, M/M, Possessive Dean, Rough Sex, Spanking, Top Dean, ageswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6890761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things just aren't the same since Dean's big brother came back from Hell; it's like the handprint on Sam's arm is taunting him, and Dean needs to show Sam who he really belongs to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Real

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'spanking' square on my SPN Kink Bingo card /and/ for hellhoundsprey as per the most evocative fucking prompt.

Dean's seething. In general.

He loves having Sam back, barely existed without him in fact. Even prayed for him. Sure, it turned into cursing, but the prayers came first. Turned into a near 6 month rolling blackout of pills and booze and fucking up every demon he could find.

Turns out, none of it helped.

Turns out, someone else took the fall, someone else busted down the gates of hell and charged in. Someone else saved Sam and left a whopper of a reminder of Sam's shoulder.

Dean tries to forget but it's always _there_. There when Sam takes his shirt off. There in the shower. There when Sam's on his back in bed and Dean's fucking into him and they're both _there_ and so so far away too. Dean tries to cover the pale puckered flesh with his own hand but it doesn't fit, does nothing.

And Sam recoils when he touches it. Every damn time.

So Dean's seething in a permanent fashion, torn between the relief that Sam is _back_ and horror that someone else staked a claim. And a mess too. Dean's a mess because Sam's a mess. Sam's all dark eyes and tired lines on his face. Sam's all pensive staring out of windows and so jittery-jumpy that Dean tiptoes everywhere. Sam's not sleeping much and Sam's drinking more than Dean.

And they fuck, yeah sure they do, and it's alright but it's not. It's dirty and lonely and they're coming together like usual but they're coming apart too.

It's been a month like this.

They're in Nevada now. Not the glittery part that Dean loves in his wide-eyed cliche way, but the flat dry dusty part, in a motel four decades past it's prime with a light up cactus perched next to the road, the neon limbs waving back and forth. As if cacti ever did that.

As if Dean has an excuse for staring at it out the window.

Sam's asleep for once. He's not peaceful; his face creases on and off, head thrashing against the pillow, sweat flying. Wakes up in a start clutching his arm, fingers digging into the handprint and Dean watches and Dean wants to punch out the fucking window, break the chair over the table and send it into splinters. Wants to take Sam back for himself, fucking _needs_ to.

_Need to show him who he belongs to._

Dean's off the chair before Sam even calls, but he does anyway, a withering, pitiful little, “Dean?” that splits his heart open.

This is new, Dean climbing onto the bed, tucking Sam against him, telling him it's okay, it's okay. Dean grew up with Sam around him like this and now it's reversed and it's a good thing because Dean fucking needs it.

Sam's quiet. Not even sniffling, slow shallow breathing, his head under Dean's chin and hot against his bare chest. Hair tacky with sweat and Dean cards his hand through it, brushes it out as best he can. Holds him as close as he can.

Somehow, the quiet murmurs of _it's okay, it's okay_ turn to _I'm here_ , and those turn to _you're mine, you're mine._

_Mine_.

Sam doesn't say anything, still. He raises his head to jam it against Dean's neck, steamy panicky breath fogging up Dean's skin. He's there in Dean's arms, molten hot and vaguely trembling. But Sam's also very much not there and Dean feels it, wonders where he goes. Wonders if not knowing is better.

Time ticks away easy like this though, with Sam in his arms and his thoughts ever-spinning. Ticks and ticks until Sam shudders a sigh and they're kissing. Keeps ticking and they're fucking, falling seamless into the familiarity of hands and tongues, barely talking.

It's rough, fast. Sam's face down ass up, long arms stretched out, fingers twisting in the sheets, rocking his big body back and impaling himself over and over on Dean's dick.

And Dean's bruising his big brother's hips with his fingertips, trying to pace himself but Sam's so tight, squeezing and _squeezing_ and the harder Dean shoves in, the prettier Sam's noises get, the more present he seems. God but it's not right to fuck anyone this hard, so hard Dean's flesh stings from the contact and he holds a thrust, pushes and pushes until Sam sobs under him, shaking and half-collapsing and Dean's halfway to an apology but...

“Harder, harder, hit me,” spills out of Sam in a warble.

Dean couldn't, Dean could never; he has before just never like this, never balls deep in Sam. Always something stupid, some heated fight or too serious sparring but _never like this_.

Dean doesn't say anything, just grits his teeth and keeps punching his dick into Sam and he hopes it's enough, hopes the pretty constellation of bruises on Sam's hips are enough.

“Dean, please? Choke me, you can choke me,” Sam reiterates, reaching back for Dean's hand, clasping his fingers and dragging them up until he has to let go but Dean drapes over him in the motion and _he can't he can't do it_.

Not that.

“C'mon, just take it, Sammy, just take it,” Dean grits his teeth, growls into his brother's ear and sinks his teeth into his neck because that he can do, easily, sucking until he leaves a mark right above that fucking handprint, until he tastes faint copper and Sam's shaking under him.

He has to raise back up to keep pounding him though, so hard the bed creaks, shitty motel frame threatening to break because something has to and it can't be Sam, it can't be.

Dean leans back, drags Sam with him, watches his ass bounce, red from the hard hard fucking and _oh he could just..._

No warning and Dean cracks his hand down on Sam's sweet ass and Sam jolts, tightens up and moans so pretty, so broken that Dean does it again. His palm stings. Sam's ass goes pink-red, clenches on Dean's still-thrusting dick and he's coming; Dean knows from those noises, from how it feels, from his own body's automatic reaction. Always so perfect, so in sync like it's supposed to be because Sam's his and no one else does it like this, no one else could ever hope to.

Dean's lost in it, emptying into his brother and fixating on parts: the bite on his neck isn't red enough, isn't much of a match for the handprint defiling his shoulder; the back of Sam's head, sweat-drenched hair that looks impossibly dark; and Sam's ass where he's in all the way and pushing further, still grabbing a handful of reddened flesh and smacking it again.

“Don't – don't stop,” Sam says, whines basically, pressing into the sheets. Eyes shut.

Dean shoves him down the rest of the way, makes a fucking mess but it's worth it to see his come dripping out for a second, down Sam's big thighs.

And Dean doesn't stop. He hovers over Sam, speeds his hand down again and again, switches sides, switches hands. Sam's either quiet or crying in turns and it's beautiful. Dean rubs at his shoulders sometimes, doesn't make him talk. Doesn't have to. Maybe doesn't want to, a little.

Dean's happy when he's done, rubbing his palms over it, over the blood-red skin. He wants to see it bruise up, hopes it does.

Then _Sam;_ he sighs so hard the bed shakes. Dean slides his way up, smoothing his hands over Sam's back, over his tight shoulders, feeling his brother melt under his fingertips like he hasn't done in so goddamned long, far too long. Dean kisses into the mess of his hair, doesn't are that he's still turned away.

“Okay?” Dean asks, mumbles against Sam's neck, kissing over the still just-red mark on his neck.

Sam nods against him, quick and terse and it's good enough. It might be a lie but it's good enough.

Dean wraps around him, arms and legs, vice-tight.

“Mine.”

 


End file.
